


Ironía

by fireweed15



Category: Book of Life (2014)
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, I'm a dick to characters I love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3370943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireweed15/pseuds/fireweed15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>irony<br/>noun iro·ny \ˈī-rə-nē also ˈī(-ə)r-nē\ : the use of words that mean the opposite of what you really think especially in order to be funny   : a situation that is strange or funny because things happen in a way that seems to be the opposite of what you expected</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ironía

When asked to define _ironía_ , Joaquin would say that Sundays were hell. Starting late Saturday night, the mere thought of what was coming was so nerve-wracking that he couldn’t sleep and when he did it, was shallow, fitful and plagued by nightmares. 

Then, early in the morning on Sunday, it began. He always knew it was coming, but as soon as it started, any touch with reality he might’ve had dissipated, and memories flooded his consciousness, completely overwhelming him. 

All because church bells were ringing. 

_Clang_ —the look on Manolo’s face as he murmured his goodbyes— 

_Clang_ —the stirred up and breathed in, choking him, as the bell’s edge dropped to the ground, trapping his friend inside. He had the medal, so Joaquin knew he would live… or so he hoped— 

_Clang_ —the sensation of being thrown backwards from the force of the explosion— 

_Clang_ —coming to consciousness to the feeling of white hot pain radiating from his left eye socket outward— 

_Clang—clang—clang_ — In these waking moments, indistinguishable from the memories now coming over him in unforgiving waves, everything hurt as badly as it had that day, and every memory, every pain, restarted with each peal of the bell, and all he could do was curl up as small as he could, hands clamped over his ears, and rock in frenzied rhythm, begging for it to _stop._

Yeah, Sundays were hell.


End file.
